Would?
by sleepwalk
Summary: Fixed some formatting and disclaimer. Enjoy your Scogue!


WOULD?  

By Sleepwalk

Disclaimer:  I am making no money from this what so ever.  I wouldn't think of trying, because I don't own a damn thing but the actual plot and structure of the story.  The characters all belong to Marvel comics and their licensees.  The song lyrics belong to the band Alice in Chains and their licensees.  Both entities kick great quantities of posterior.

Note: If you need help suspending disbelief, imagine this takes place before the beginning of the third season.  Also, this is the first fic I've ever posted and I'm scared to death.  Please review.  

Key: 

 "…"-denotes speech

 #...#- Evan's thoughts

 …- Rogue's thoughts

*…*- Scott's thoughts

"Evan, Where can I find Scott?"

Evan looked up, a wisecrack on the tip of his tongue.  The smile faded from his face, however, when he saw the look on Rogue's porcelain features.  A connection formed in his head.

# 'I.' Not 'Ah.'  No accent, no emotion. Asking for Scott, not Cyclops. #  "In the Danger Room.  I think."

"Thank you, Evan."

Rogue walked through the living room and the hall way towards the basement elevator.

He needs to make up his damn mind!  What he did today . . . it makes no sense.  Jean wasn't hurt, but c'mon!  He coulda blasted that girder away easy.  Instead he leapfrogs her to tackle me clear?  And the look on her face . . . she wasn't jealous.  She pitied him.  Us?  Me?  What gives her the right to pity anyone?!

No.  This isn't about Jean.  This isn't even about me.  This is all Scott.  Scott and his need to be hit in the head.   Or mebbe spanked.  No!  Think straight damnit!

Scott Summers had his program set.  His focus was clear.  His emotions, as usual, were not.  He pulled on the headphones and sat down at the drum set he had arranged.

The Professor had called it "aggression therapy."

                                                XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You can't just head down to the Danger Room whenever you feel frustrated, Scott.  It's unhealthy, drawing a subliminal link between anger and violent resolution.  Not to mention the association of a specific place and emotion."

"I don't just use the Danger Room."

"Of course not.  There's always the weight room, the jogging trail, Logan's punching bags . . .  Do not roll your eyes at me behind those glasses."

"I wasn't."

"Then I apologize," Xavier sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.  "Scott, you've lost a considerable amount of weight recently."

"A few pounds."

"More than a few pounds and certainly more than a boy your age should be able to spare so readily."

"Maybe I should turn to compulsive eating."

"This sort of irritability only lends credence to my assumption that all of this relates to the personal matter of which you refuse to talk to anyone about and which I refuse to pry from you, telepathically or otherwise.  Take up painting.  Sculpture.  Learn to play a musical instrument.  If you can't confide in someone or resolve this issue, do something expressive with this pent up emotion, Scott.  Please."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

*So what do I do?  I learn a musical instrument that I have to hit with sticks.  And I play loud enough that I'm confined to the Danger Room.  Home Sweet Home, I guess.*

And today, Scott needed something HARD.  Something that used its drums HARD.

The bass guitar thrummed in anticipation and Scott shuddered a drumstick on a cymbal before he crashed into the snares.__

**Know me broken by my master   
Teach thee on child of love hereafter**

*I am NOT Xavier's lapdog!  I am NOT doing what society tells me to do!  I made this . . . this choice for me not for anyone else.  Jean is beautiful and she's my friend.  Jean and I make sense.   She's the one I know.  She knows me.  The person you love is supposed to be your partner, your equal.  They're not someone you have no right to feel for.  Someone who hates your pity.  Someone you want to hold tight to you and make them feel better.  Someone you want to armor with your body every time she's hurt or lonely.  Every time her lips pout or she sulks in the dark.  Or every time she blows that one lock of hair from her eyes.*

Damn Mystique. 'I think you've got a little thing for Scott Summers.' Bitch was never a mother to me mah whole lahfe, and she does 'girl talk' in disguise as Risty.  'Oh no, of course you don't like him.  Tall, athletic, brooding type with nice cheekbones and big hands.'  She knew exactly what was up, though.  The others see Scott as Mistah Almost-Perfect.  A big-brotherly Ken doll that never overshadows Jean.  They think he knows how beautiful he is.  
  


**Into the flood again   
Same old trip it was back then   
So I made a big mistake   
Try to see it once my way**

_  
Rogue heard the music on the elevator, faintly at first, until she got to the control booth and recognized the song.  She sat down and watched Scott, frustrated and aimless, banging away._

That ain't who he really is.  He can pretend n' pose all he wants, but Ah've been inside o' him.  Ah know what he wants, what he needs, what he thinks is right n' how ain't none o' them the same thing.  Ah know what he's done n' were he's been.  Ah wanna make him ferget.  But he won't even let the Professor or Jean in and he wants to for them.

*Why do I hate what this does to HER?  Why should I feel guilty?  We're close.  Very close.  But that's where it ends.  It's not as if we're so alike.  Scott and Marie are the same.  Scott and Marie are attracted.  Cyclops and Rogue aren't!  That's who I really am.  Out there its all a secret.  In the uniform . . . that's what I am.  That's who I am to the people that matter.  That's all I am.*  
  
__

**Drifting body it's sole desertion  
Flying not yet quite the notion**

_  
*Is it the touching thing?  I'm not that shallow!  Am I that naïve? *  
  
_

Ah've had the hots for guys before.  But ah never felt this bad about not bein' able to kiss one, not being able to hold him through the night.  And it bothers me that he cares as much as Ah do.

**Am I wrong?   
Have I run too far to get home   
Have I gone?   
And left you here alone**

At that point Scott had begun to break concentration, missing a beat often, then catching up.  His audience didn't notice the rhythm as much as the moisture leaking from his visor.

Ah push people away, Ah know, but not him.  But he gets pushed away with the group.  If they'd all disappear, he'd have me as an open book.  If SHE disappeared, Ah'd have HIM.  Or is that lahke mah powers.  Jus another excuse?

* She won't open up.  Not to the others.  Just enough to seem normal.  Just like I do.  Will she leave?  Just because of us?  No.  Because of me?  Yes.  Why?  What does she see in me?  *

Scott continued to howl along to the vocals, never noticing Rogue watching from the control booth, singing along.

**If I would, could you?**

"If I could, would you?"

"If Ah could, would you?"

Jean Grey took off her headphones and put the computer into sleep mode, severing her local connection to the Danger Room.  Pulling back the covers, she slid into bed, knowing that sleep would not come easy and that, when she awoke, a song would haunt her thoughts throughout her day.  It would be a song of conflict and desperation that an angry young man used to play on his stereo when he was thinking about her.


End file.
